


A New Leaf

by eratospen



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Belly Kink, Fat and Happy, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratospen/pseuds/eratospen
Summary: After leaving Kirkwall and the pressures of being the Champion behind, Hawke takes to the quiet life a little (a lot) too well. Thankfully, Fenris doesn't mind at all.
Warning: This is a Dragon Age male weight gain / belly kink story. If that doesn't sound like your thing...it probably isn't.





	1. Chapter 1

“So,” Hawke said, scratching his beard awkwardly, “it looks like we’re farmers now.”

Fenris just glanced at him, one dark brow arched.

“Just…normal, everyday farmers,” Hawke continued. “Tilling the fields. Tending the sheep. Uh…farming the farmland.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said, “whatever is bothering you, spit it out.”

He flushed, straightening from his easy slouch; it felt bizarre to be in loose cotton pants and a clean linen shirt and _not_ his usual armor. It felt even stranger to look over and see _Fenris_ dressed down, casual in a way Hawke couldn’t ever remember seeing him. “Nothing,” he said, trying to will it to be true. “It’s nothing.”

Fenris’s brow rose higher.

Relenting, Hawke gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s just…look at this place.” He gestured around the little farmhouse they now shared. Its clapboard walls were painted a pale yellow, white trim around doors and windows adding a wholesome breeziness he didn’t remember even from his own youth growing up in Lothering. Window boxes were full of flowers, their scent wafting into the main room on every low breeze. Outside, he could hear dogs yapping and druffalo lowing. Children laughed.

“I thought this was what we wanted?” Fenris asked, voice even. “Away from Kirkwall and magic and demons and _demands_ on your time.”

Hawke rubbed his dark beard again. “Well…yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose it just feels strange not to have something to do. Or, well, someone to _fight_.”

Fenris flashed his teeth. “You can fight me.”

That earned a wry laugh. “Oh can I?” Hawke teased, grabbing for his lover. He caught Fenris about the waist, hauling him across the (soft, comfortable) couch and into his lap. Fenris went willingly enough, though he made a show of pretending to squirm free; the flash of humor in his eyes, the easy smile, was enough to convince Hawke this had been the right decision even if it still felt strange to let down his guard.

He caught Fenris’s wrists and pinned them behind his back, keeping his grip light enough that Fenris could break free at any time. The catch of his breath, the slow dilation of his pupils, sent tendrils of heat curling through his big warrior’s body.

_Maker_ , what Fenris could do to him with just one look.

“You have caught me,” Fenris said, head tipping forward. He rested their foreheads together, breath hot against Hawke’s cheeks. “Now what will you do with me?”

“Hmmm.” He pretended to think it over, even as he shifted his hips up, tightening his powerful stomach muscles and thighs to buck against the lean lines of his lover. Fenris’s breath caught. “I’m sure I could think of _something_ …”

Fenris gave a little growl, suddenly biting at Hawke’s mouth, and that was all he needed to hoist him over, tossing Fenris across the plush couch and following him down—using his greater weight to pin him, hot and unresisting and so very welcoming against the cushions.

He supposed, if retirement was like _this_ , he didn’t mind having so many empty hours to fill.


	2. Chapter 2

Eventually, they found a rhythm to their new lives. Fenris volunteered with the local militia, training the farmers and their children how to fight and defend their lands. He spent long hours running drills and barking out commands, and he seemed all the happier for it.

For his part, Hawke had hung up his sword and swore to stick by that decision. It took some months of dabbling with this trade or that—trying his hand at druffalo herding and planting and leatherworking—before he rediscovered a talent he hadn’t explored in _years_.

“I never figured I’d go from farmboy to soldier to mercenary to Champion to baker,” he said with a laugh, unpacking a basket full of fresh loaves. The local baker was an elderly woman with no family and an eye on retirement: she was only too glad to take Hawke under her wing and begin to teach him everything she knew.

Mostly, he spent his days learning new recipes and practicing; he was a long, long ways away from baking anything decent enough to sell. Yet there was a soothing rhythm to measuring and mixing and kneading and baking (and, of course, eating his own attempts so he could build his palette and learn from mistakes). There was a peace he’d never felt even living in the lap of Kirkwall’s Hightown luxury.

“You never figured a great many things,” Fenris said, setting aside his sword. He moved in to press an open-mouthed kiss to Hawke’s shoulder, one arm sliding around his trim waist. “Why should this be different?”

Hawke snagged an iced sweet and turned in Fenris’s arms, laughing. “True enough,” he said, offering his lover a bite before popping the rest into his mouth. There wasn’t enough cinnamon; he’d have to remember to take a stronger hand with the spices next time. “Here’s to having an unpredictable life, I suppose.”

“If it is all the same to you,” Fenris murmured, hands sliding up Hawke’s chest, teasing over the muscular pecs to broad, strong shoulders, “I could use a few years of predictable.”

Hawke leaned in, nipping at the tip of one ear; he smiled at the strangled noise Fenris made. “You won’t get bored if we get soft and lose our edge?”

Fenris just pressed closer, hips rocking up once against his—hard. “I am still fighting,” he teased as he let his head fall back, eyes fluttering closed. His breath came in uneven bursts. “ _You_ are the one who will lose your edge.”

He just hummed and caught Fenris’s ass in his broad palms, dragging him closer. Their cocks (already half-hard from the tease of it, heat rising every second they were together) dragged in a delicious rasp. “I’m the Champion of Kirkwall,” Hawke teased, tongue trailing down the delicate shell of Fenris’s ear, voice husky. “I’ll never lose my edge.”

“I— _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris gasped. He grabbed at Hawke’s dark hair and yanked his head down for a long, hot, blistering kiss. “Shut up, Hawke,” he finally managed on a low growl, then stroked his tongue deep into Hawke’s mouth to chase away all words, all breath, all thought.

Everything but _Fenris_.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris rested on one elbow, watching with sleepy eyes as Hawke dressed.

“It is not even dawn,” he said—the same protest every morning. The militia didn’t gather until late in the morning, but Hawke had to be at the bakery before the sun rose to help get the morning bread out for the first customers.

“Go back to bed,” Hawke soothed, the same way _he_ did every morning. It was a familiar rhythm by now, a schedule he could set his internal clock to. Every morning, Hawke rose while it was still dark. Every morning, he urged Fenris to go back to sleep.

Every morning, Fenris stayed awake, watching his lover dress with fond, appreciative eyes, enjoying the sight of rippling muscle and a darkly furred chest.

Only…

He cocked his head, half-listening to whatever Hawke was saying, focusing in more closely on the other man. They had been together long enough that he knew Hawke’s body as well as he knew his own. He had kissed, bit, sucked on every bit of scarred skin that covered the delicious stretch of muscle; he could tell when something was different.

And, subtle as it was, something was different.

Fenris watched as Hawke tugged on his loose cotton trousers, buttoning the fly. _That_ was the difference, he decided. It was minute—barely worth noting—but where Hawke used to easily fasten the almost too-relaxed waistband, now he tugged just the slightest bit before slipping the buttons through their holes. As if the waistband had tightened somehow about his trim warrior’s waist.

Or, perhaps, his warrior’s waist wasn’t _quite_ as trim as it used to be.

He leaned his head against his fist, watching with open curiosity as a tiny roll of fat spilled over the lip of Hawke’s pants when he bent for his shirt. It was there and gone again in a flash, so subtle Fenris wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t known his Hawke so well, and yet…

Yet, yes, Hawke had definitely lost some of the definition to his once washboard-tight abs. And gathering at his stomach and around his sides was the very faintest hint of softness—a tiny bit of pudge Fenris doubted Hawke himself was aware of, cutely rounding over his waistband when he bent.

Fenris wanted to sink his teeth into that tiny roll, there and gone again, but he swallowed back the impulse. He didn’t want to make Hawke self-conscious about such a natural change in his body. He was retired; he was living an easier life. It was _good_ that he chose not to keep his body honed as a weapon. That little bit of pudge was like a promise to Fenris that Hawke meant to live and live _well_ here with him. Safe from a world that had been void-bent on killing him.

 _I hope he gets fat_ , a part of Fenris whispered. He couldn’t even imagine it, but he _wanted_ it, sudden and fierce. Visceral. Because if Hawke got fat, then he wouldn’t want to go back to Kirkwall to be their Champion again. If Hawke got fat, he wouldn’t insert himself in the middle of whatever ridiculous new conflict came their way.

Instead, he’d stay home—a soft baker instead of a hard warrior, happy to remain in Fenris’s arms. Content in this life they were building together.

“Come here,” Fenris demanded as Hawke finished pulling his shirt over his head. He reached out, grabbing the front of his collar and yanking him down for a fierce kiss. It went on and on, full of tongue and teeth and focused determination, one hand twined in his collar to keep him close.

The other hand sliding under his shirt to rest at his waist, feeling that hint of softness with his fingertips as if he could somehow urge it to grow.


	4. Chapter 4

“Damn it,” Hawke muttered, chewing and swallowing with a scrunched-up frown. _Too much_ cinnamon this time.

He sighed, staring morosely down at the pan of iced rolls. He’d been working on getting the recipe just right for weeks now— _months_! And yet no matter how many times he walked through the steps, no matter how carefully he measured, he was always just a little off.

More annoyed with himself than was probably reasonable—though he was the Champion of Kirkwall, damn it!—Hawke stabbed his fork into the pan and took another bite. This time he made himself focus on the texture, the taste. The subtle flavors mixed with the bright sweetness of the thick sugar icing. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter, and shoveled another bit into his mouth, sorting out everything that had gone wrong bite by bite by bite. That was the only way he’d ever learn.

In the front room of the bakery, his mentor Mrs. Willoughby was humming to herself as she swept the floors. The cooling racks and display cases were filled with her confections; _someday_ he’d manage to meet her exacting standards enough that one of his own creations made it out front for sale.

But until then…

He watched out the window, enjoying the sight of falling leaves as he almost perfunctorily ate his way through the pan. He was stuffed full from previous mistakes, but years of ignoring his own discomfort to keep fighting had now been translated into an impressive ability to just keep _eating_ even after he’d reached his natural limits.

_It’s the only way you’ll learn_ , Mrs. Willoughby was fond of tsking, shaking one arthritic finger in his face before poking him in the overfull stomach. _If you make yourself sick on your own failure, you’ll start getting it right before long._

Well, he supposed the last laugh was on her, because he could eat his own failure for hours and still find it in him to screw up again.

Hawke sighed, doggedly reaching the end of the pan, chin resting in one hand as he absently ate with the other. Cumin. He probably needed a stronger pinch of cumin. Or maybe…

He let out a sudden belch and quickly straightened with a guilty look toward the kitchen door. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts, he hadn’t been paying attention to how quickly he was scarfing the whole thing down; Maker, good thing no one was here to hear him.

Even so, politeness demanded he murmur a quiet, “ _Excuse_ me,” before shoving the last bite into his mouth. He gathered up the pan to carry it to the sink, tossing it into the sudsy water and pausing just long enough to tug down his trousers a bit, rubbing his fist against the tight swell of his gut. It was comedic, somehow, just how stuffed he got. Today had been marked by more failures than usual, and he felt…

Hawke slid a palm across the straining linen shirt, chuckling at the impressive swell of his stomach. It was poking out farther than usual today—he must have _really_ overdone it. Sometimes he worried about the comical sight he must make on days like today, practically waddling his way home with a gut like a woman in her first blush of pregnancy, pants riding low, shirt squeezing tight, belly button clearly visible against white cloth. But it felt _good_ to finally make it to that plush couch and unfasten his pants. It felt even better to suck gently on Fenris’s tongue as his lover’s clever hands massaged the hard swell of his belly— _no,_ stomach; only fat men had bellies, and he was a warrior—soothingly.

He supposed it was worth putting up with the occasional gentle ribbing he got from villagers asking when the baby was due if it meant Fenris taking care of him like _that_. Besides, it was just overeating; the swollen dome went away again by the morning, just in time for him to kiss his lover goodbye and make his way back to the bakery to try, try again.

Mrs. Willoughby stuck her head into the kitchen. “Boy,” she said—because she always called Hawke _boy_ , no matter that he was well into his thirties—“are you so reluctant to improve that you’re _napping_ in my kitchen?”

Hawke laughed to himself, quickly scrubbing and rinsing the pan before moving (slower than usual, tightly-packed gut a steady ache) to gather ingredients to make another go of this—this time with just the right amount of cinnamon, he was sure of it. “No ma’am,” he said, diligently working. “I’ll have another batch for you in an hour.”

“See that you do,” she said, sharp-tongued but fond. She eyed him up and down once, smiling, then turned on her heel and ducked back out into the main room.

And Hawke settled into making the iced treat _again_ , swearing that this time he wouldn’t have to eat a whole pan of his failure. (An hour later, huffing labored breaths as he ignored discomfort and had to eat it anyone, bite by sugary bite.)


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke was really starting to gain weight, and it was driving Fenris _crazy_.

He didn’t say anything about it—he wasn’t even sure just how aware Hawke was of the steady changes in his own body—but Fenris watched and mentally catalogued each change with a hunger he couldn’t deny. The slow softening of his lover was like an answered promised, or a prayer. Each little expansion was another confirmation that Hawke would never take up the sword again and put his life on the line.

(At least, Fenris thought as he waited anxiously for Hawke to come home, that was what he could tell himself.)

He spotted Hawke coming down the lane, a dark speck in the distance. In theory, the tall shape could have been _anyone_ , but the way it swayed gently back and forth, leading with its gut, made it obvious enough. Fenris was used to Hawke coming home stuffed from a long day, but as the snow began to fall and winter holidays approached, Hawke’s gluttony had become astonishing.

“Festival. Pies,” he often wheezed as he waddled his way into the farmhouse, one hand on his packed-tight gut, the other sometimes resting at the small of his back as if he really _were_ pregnant. And Maker but on a good day he looked it. Fenris couldn’t imagine the amount of food Hawke had to consume to make himself swell up so big; he could only be there to help lead him to the couch and soothe his inflated middle with kisses and warm hands.

_And to think_ , Fenris mused, watching as Hawke lumbered slowly closer, swaying even more than usual today, _festival is still over two weeks away._

He bit the inside of his mouth, watching the ponderous progress as Hawke grew clearer and clearer. His linen shirt was stretched like a second skin, creeping up over the swell of his inflated gut even as the waist of his trousers rolled down. Fenris could see the pinched red lines visible at his hips, just under the soft roll of a muffin top—much more substantial than it had been just a few months ago. Nearly enough to grab a hold of and knead between his fingers if he dared.

Hawke was flushed a bright red today, visible even under his beard. His lips were pursed in a steady O, thickened chest rising and falling as he huffed each breath. Both big hands cradled a truly massive gut, and oh Maker, Fenris could see the indention of his belly button clearly through straining fabric.

He hopped down as Hawke lumbered up, already reaching to rest a soothing hand at the small of his lover’s back. “This Festival just may kill you,” Fenris said, though his words came out in a purr. He urged Hawke through the door, marveling at the way he had to waddle as if he truly were pregnant, gut thrust in a wide dome in front of him. He’d never seen Hawke so over-stuffed—so utterly packed with food.

Hawke opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a huffing breath. He made his way to the couch with ginger steps, Fenris at his side, and flopped down with a grateful moan.

The moment he landed, there was a sound of ripping cloth and a scattering of buttons as one, two, _three_ snapped clear of their threads and went flying. Fenris sucked in a breath, shocked and oddly turned on by the sudden gaping flashes of darkly furred _gut_. From this angle, Hawke looked absolutely massive.

Hawke just rubbed at his belly, barely acknowledging the torn shirt. Or maybe he’d sunk himself so deep into a food coma that he didn’t even notice. “Pies are…are going to…be the…death…of me,” he managed, huffing on each word. He gave a low burp, muffling it in his fist. When he shifted, his dome of a stomach actually rested a little in his lap.

Fenris dropped to his knees in front of Hawke, flushed and aroused and _amused_. “How many did you eat?” he asked, carefully reaching up to unfasten the rest of Hawke’s buttons. It was a struggle to tug them free—his shirt was painted on so tightly there was barely any room to slip his fingers—but it was worth it to reveal more and more of that straining skin. There were red lines creeping up the bottom slope of Hawke’s stomach, spanning in its own form of lyrium markings; he wanted to trace them with his tongue, this palpable proof of Hawke’s gain.

“Four,” Hawke said on a moan; his gut actually rolled forward once it was freed, spanning proud from slightly softened pecs. His meaty arms rested at his sides and his head fell back. The beard hid whether there was any softening about his face. Maybe, Fenris mused as he struggled to unfasten Hawke’s pants, that’s how Hawke managed to ignore just how much he was packing on. His body he could blame on being stuffed, overlooking the softening that was happening in tandem. His face would have been another matter if he had only been able to see all of it.

(Fenris liked to imagine he saw a small flash of softness there sometimes. It would certainly track with the way the rest of him was steadily expanding.)

“No,” Hawke grunted when Fenris wrenched his trousers open, “five. Six? Bloody void, I lost count. More than any man was meant to eat, but I’m getting _close_ to getting the damn thing right.”

“Mmm,” Fenris agreed, rubbing his thumbs soothingly along the deep red mark made by too-tight pants. He’d ordered new sets of clothing for Hawke ever since he’d started to notice how dangerously close he was to growing out of his current pair. With any luck, they would be ready before he ripped through every stitch he owned. “I am certain you will make it.”

He made another noise and rubbed at the crest of his gut, then up the steady dome to where it met his meaty pecs. He even _smelled_ like sugar and flour and fruit. “Assuming I don’t pop first. Maker, look how fat I look,” Hawke added with a laugh, giving his belly a delicate pat.

_Look how fat you are_ , Fenris corrected, kneeling between Hawke’s spread thighs, rubbing gently at his distended gut. The fallen-open shirt framed him, hiding the thickening rolls at his hips, the little swells of father gathering at his sides.

“If I’m not careful, I’ll look like this bloody all the time.”

“Would that be so bad?” Fenris asked, leaning in to kiss just below Hawke’s belly button. He traced the ever-deepening divot with his tongue, enjoying the way Hawke’s body expanded on a breath. When he got this full, Hawke could barely move to reciprocate during sex, but sometimes he allowed Fenris to push him flat against the bed and ride him, knees gripping the rounded swell of his body. Fenris slid his hands down to subtly cup the gentle overflow of his muffin top, lips sucking red marks down snaking stretch marks as Hawke sucked in another breath, held it, let it out slowly.

His cock was straining against his trousers, nudging provocatively up against the rounded bottom of his gut. “Fenris, I’m too full to do much,” Hawke warned. He could hear the _but_ there, though.

“Mm?” he murmured, daring to squeeze that ever-growing roll of flesh even as he nuzzled down between Hawke’s legs, lips learning the shape of him through the roughspun material.

Hawke just groaned. “ _You’re_ going to be the death of me,” he grumbled, hips rocking up once. Then he grunted and flailed for the arm of the couch, trying to hoist himself up—belly-first, rising big and thick above him, swollen with promise—to standing. “All right, love,” Hawke said. “ _Bed_.”

Fenris was up in a flash, pushing Hawke’s shirt off of him, revealing arms thick with muscle and a lining of fat, pressing his face against the gently growing softness of his chest and catching the bit of give there between his teeth. “ _Bed_ ,” he growled in agreement, herding Hawke back. Laughing when Hawke made a teasing druffalo noise as he lumbered into their bedroom, so round it was almost ridiculous, so gorgeous it was all Fenris could do not to drop to his knees and take him right there.

Full and ripe and so full of promise. On his way to being actually truly _fat_.


	6. Chapter 6

Weeks and weeks of preparing for the winter festival. Weeks and weeks of two, three, four, _more_ pies a day. By the time festival day finally rolled around and the fruits of Hawke’s labors were packed into a small booth for townspeople to sample and admire, Fenris had gotten his wish.

Because his lover? Was finally, officially _fat_.

And there was every indication he was just going to get fatter.

“You have been working long enough today, boy,” the kindly baker finally said after a long day slaving at the booth. From a few paces back from their stall, Fenris could watch the way she moved around Hawke, spry where Hawke was now much slower. Watching them, Fenris couldn’t help but think they looked like a fennic and a druffalo. “It’s time for you to have a little fun.”

“I’m not sure I’d call pitched competition _fun_ ,” Hawke said with a deep laugh. He was doing that a lot more. Fenris could remember a time when Hawke was lean-bodied and muscular and hardened and _grim_ by necessity. Now he was… _round_ , belly pooching adorably over his waistband even when it wasn’t stuffed full, fleshy sides forming ever-growing rolls that strained against his shirt, ass wide enough to drive Fenris crazy. He laughed and joked and lazed about now more than he ever had, sinking into this new life as a pudgy baker as if he had been born into it.

Fenris supposed that, in a way, he had. He wondered if Hawke the Lothering farmboy would have ever let himself go like this. If perhaps, in a way, it had always been his destiny to live the bucolic life—body thickening with every year that passed, muscle and fat swelling his form as the sun browned his skin and laugh lines etched themselves across his handsome, round-cheeked face.

He could see it. He could see it _so clearly_.

He was all too glad he was here to witness the transformation into Hawke’s true self.

“Fun or not,” Mrs. Willoughby was saying, waving a finger at him before poking him in the side. Her fingertip dug into plush flesh, and there was no mistaking her pleased grin; sometimes Fenris felt like she was a co-conspirator, doing her best to fatten Hawke up as fast as possible like a prize hog. “You _will_ go and you _will_ compete and you _will_ win. For the shop, if for nothing else.”

Hawke snorted, swatting away her hand fondly. “Are those my official orders then?”

She grinned up at him, lines forming a weathered map about her ancient face. “It is.”

“Well then.” He gave his rounded gut a hearty slap, and Fenris bit his lip as it watched it _shudder_ in the aftermath. Hawke was usually so blissfully overstuffed that his stomach remained a near-perpetual dome, only varying by size thanks to how hard he was pushed at the bakery that day. (How much he was forced to eat.) It was…uncommon for Fenris to be able to get a true reckoning of how much weight he’d packed on since they’d moved here. Judging by the thick meatiness of him—Maker, he could actually see the shadow of Hawke’s pecs, softened into juicy swells that just begged to be bitten and sucked—if they put a number to his gain, it would have been _high._ Fenris wondered if Hawke himself realized yet just how high. “It’s a good thing you’ve been training me for this so mercilessly, isn’t it? Andraste knows there isn’t a gut in town that can carry as much as this one can.”

“Now there’s the fighting spirit.” She swatted at him again before waving Hawke off—catching Fenris’s eye as he straightened from his relaxed lounge. The old woman actually _winked_ as Hawke made his way over, and Fenris fought not to flush. If he ever had any doubt Mrs. Willoughby was taking wicked delight in the almost alarmingly fast expansion of his lover, that quenched it.

But he couldn’t focus on her for long—not when Hawke was moving toward him. No, _lumbering_ toward him, balance as always thrown off by an ever-growing weight he still hadn’t adjusted to, much of it centered in the thick swell of his gorgeously round belly.

Maker, but Hawke was getting big. It made his palms sweat.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hawke asked, smiling wide. His cheeks were rounded out, soft and almost sweet-looking. Fenris swore he could see the fold of a growing second chin beneath Hawke’s beard (he’d certainly felt it as he kissed down that jaw, one naked thigh flung over ever-thickening hips), and he admired the way Hawke’s still-mostly-empty belly subtly _jiggled_ with each step. The edge of his shirt had come untucked with the motion, flashing occasional glimpses of furred belly; his sleeves had been rolled up high enough to show arms that were still thick with muscle despite the plush layer of fat.

Fenris didn’t answer. Instead, he caught the collar of Hawke’s shirt and pulled him down for an open-mouthed kiss, pressing his lithe body up against all that soft flesh. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss Hawke _next_ winter’s festival. If he continued to grow at this rate, he would be humongously obese, mountain of a gut spilling from heavy tits, rolling down to slap against thighs as thick around as Fenris’s waist. His arms would be heavy with fat that shuddered and waved as he wrapped his arms around Fenris, and he would be able to sink into him, lose himself in him, grab great handfuls of him and hold on forever.

Hold on to his big, fat mountain of a warrior.

He hummed into the kiss, rocking up against the swell of Hawke’s belly, ridiculously turned on by the thought. Hawke responded with a low groan, hands grasping for Fenris’s hips, tongue (tasting vaguely, as always, of sugar) twining with his. He broke the kiss after a few moments on a gasp, palms curving over his ass and squeezing subtly before retreating. “Someone is in a good mood,” Hawke teased.

Fenris slid his hands around Hawke’s sides, fingers mapping out the spill of flesh that pushed farther over the waist of his pants with every breath. “It is good to watch you work,” he said by way of explanation. Then, forcing himself to let go and step away, he added, “What is this competition you are to win?”

“Oh.” Hawke chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck. The movement pulled his shirt deliciously taut over his belly and chest. “Mrs. Willoughby donated pies for the pie-eating contest. She wants me to take home the gold for her. Apparently it’s a big honor around here. And, uh...”

His cheeks flushed and he reached down, patting the rounded curve of his gut. _Shyly_ , almost, as if he wasn’t sure he should be calling attention to it. “I guess I’ve been putting on a little weight eating my way through my failure, so if anyone can scarf a few pies, it’s going to be me.”

Putting on a _little_ weight?

Fenris kept a straight face. “Then we had better get you signed up, Hawke,” he said, not letting his eyes drop to the way Hawke patted that round gut. Hawke sometimes mentioned _beefing up_ or _being stuffed like a prize hog_ , but he rarely talked in frank terms about being _fat_ even when there was no denying it—when chairs creaked beneath his weight, or a button or three popped off his shirt, or he _knocked something over_ with the wide dome of his over-stuffed belly. Fenris wondered if he was in deep denial or if he was simply compartmentalizing—enjoying the moment so thoroughly that he didn’t even think about what eat sweet he stuffed into his ever-growing body would mean.

Would there come a time when he startled awake and realize, _fuck_ , he’d let himself go to seed in truly spectacular fashion? Would Hawke one day spot himself in a mirror and jolt up in shock to realize that deliciously round, soft, jiggling body belonged to _him_?

Maker, Fenris hoped he was there to witness the moment of realization if he did—even if the thought made him feel like the worst sort of enabler.

He slipped his hand in Hawke’s, offering open affection the way he rarely used to in their lives _before_ , and pushed away the flush of shame as they searched out the pie-eating contest. There was no missing it: the scent alone would have drawn them (drawn Hawke), sugar and candied fruit sweet on the breeze. There was a growing crowd and a few contestants already bellying up to the main table. They groaned when Hawke squeezed Fenris’s hand and moved to join them.

“This is hardly fair,” one of them—a farmer closing in on three hundred pounds and sunburned nearly to a crisp—laughed. He rubbed at his own sagging belly, already spilling past the strain of his suspenders. “Everyone knows the baker’s boy is a shoo-in.”

“Mrs. Willoughby trains them up right,” a woman added. She was seating herself to Hawke’s right, hair primly pulled back from a fresh-cheeked face. “And she _boasts_ about how you’re the best she’s ever met.”

Hawke just grinned good-naturedly and took a seat, cracking his knuckles expectantly. “Well, I _am_ a champion,” he said; then winked at Fenris broadly, utter ham that he was.

Fenris barely controlled himself from rolling his eyes in response.

A few other competitors came up to the long table to take their seats, and before long the announcer was reading out the rules and prizes as his helpers were setting out stacks of pies. They towered high next to each competitor, golden-crusts gleaming in the sun, practically bursting with blueberries, cherries, apples… The smell was incredible—a cacophony of scents—and an expectant hum filled the air. Fenris edged his way around the crowd so he could keep a close eye on Hawke, feeling a guilty flush for his all-too-prurient interests even as his eyes swept his lover hungrily.

Mentally taking a _before_. Maker, but he loved the _afters_.

“All right,” the announcer called. “On my count. Contests, on your mark…get set…Andraste be with you, _go_.”

And it began.

The fat farmer took the early lead, practically diving head-first into his first pie. Hawke, by contrast, moved at a much slower pace. _Too_ slow for the crowd (who let him know it with a mix of cheers and boos  and laughter), but Fenris nodded to himself. The farmer would flare out far too quickly if he tried to keep up that pace, and Hawke was nothing if not an expert at overeating by now. He moved with easy efficiency, scooping mouthfuls and allowing himself to chew and swallow just as he had the next ready. Then the next. Then the next.

The woman glanced at him, cheeks puffed, lips a smear of blue. Hawke simply grinned and took a flashy bite, catching a dribble of cherry as it threatened his beard, eating it neatly. The table in front of him was nearly pristine (in contrast to the mess the others were making) and his slowly-straining shirt was stain-free as he piled another empty tin. Another.

_Another_.

Fenris watched, biting the inside of his mouth, as Hawke methodically made his way through _four pies_ as if they were nothing. Much of that had to be bravado, but void, but it made his own stomach clench in response. He watched as Hawke shifted, squirmed, then paused just long enough to lick his fingers clean and reach down to pop open his trouser button. The pooch of his gut swelled forward another inch, and Fenris had to curl his hands into fists when he realized it was already nearly touching Hawke’s lap— _stuffed_ and round, but still ready for more.

Hawke rubbed at the outer curve of it, taking a breath before diving back in. A few of the others were visibly flagging—a few had dropped out—but Hawke remained focused on _eating_. He kept up his pace, chewing, chewing, swallowing, chewing some more…swelling visibly now with every few bites. It was incredible, _watching_ him grow. Fenris swore he could almost hear the strain of his skin as his gut pushed out…or was that the sound of his shirt slowly straining at the seams? The edge of it was rolling up as the seconds ticked by, revealing more and more round, hairy belly, marred by pink-and-silver stretch marks drawn absolutely taut.

He rubbed his belly again, digging his palm into the thick dome, and when he arched his back to take a breath, he looked positively gravid with child—close to _popping_. Hawke shifted again, and when he relaxed, his gut rested perfectly within his lap, ready to start pushing his thick thighs apart with each additional mouthful of food he stuffed into that mammoth gut.

“Look at him go,” someone whispered, and Fenris realized with a start that even the fat farmer had given up—collapsed back in his chair, covered in juice, panting weakly. Hawke was the only competitor still going, still eating, pushing himself past any reasonable limit as he ate and ate and ate and _ate_ with a relentless focus that was near mesmeric. The whole crowd seemed fixated, watching as Fenris’s lover fattened himself in front of them: eight pies in? Nine? More? Yes, _definitely_ more. He looked utterly massive, as if he really was growing fatter with each second. Bigger, certainly, than even the most expectant mother.

Hawke’s shirt gave a final whine and split up one side, revealing a huge swath of belly. He shifted his thighs apart, letting it settle between them, and tucked into yet _another_ pie even as his chair creaked beneath him.

Finally, the dumfounded announcer hopped up onto the stage. “And we have a winner!” he called. “Garrett Hawke!”

Hawke kept eating like a man possessed. One hand was pressed flat against his belly and finally a bit of the mess was making its way through, cherry filling catching on his lips and beard, a smudge painting the broad swell of his gut where he rubbed his flesh.

“Hawke. _Hawke_ ,” the announcer said, leaning in, and only then did Hawke startle out of his near-fugue state, pie three-quarters done, mouth open on a heaving breath. The far edge of his gut brushed the table, and Fenris shuddered in response.

“I am pleased to crown our new champion,” the man said as one of his helpers stepped forward to offer Hawke a napkin and place a colorful flower crown on his head. He belched loudly, then covered his mouth with a fist, looking dazed and sheepish. The crown tilted, falling over one eye in a rakish pose. “Congratulations!”

Hawke opened his mouth to answer…then just wheezed and flopped back. He wiped himself off, cleaning up all but the smudge on his heaving belly before tossing the handkerchief down and rubbing both hands along his swollen gut. The other contestants were either doing the same or making their slow way off the stage; the crowd began to slowly disperse, a few lingering to offer Hawke laughing congratulations.

“You’d better watch yourself, boy,” an old woman laughed, giving Hawke’s huge belly a gentle pat. “Keep going like you are and you’ll be rounder than my old husband, Abe—and we had to roll him into his coffin at the end!”

Fenris glared her down, but Hawke just grinned and waved her off, too blissed out to care. His beard still hid much, but Fenris could see a clear fold of his nascent double chin as Hawke relaxed fully back, seeming to melt into his seat. His thighs were spread wide and his pants open—his shirt was split up one side and rolled well above the thick gash of his belly button—his meaty pecs seemed softer than ever in comparison with the bloated paunch, and the flesh along his sides rolled rhythmically over the biting waist of his _open_ pants, more than thick enough to grip.

He knew better than to think Hawke had gained a good thirty pounds just from one sitting, but in that moment, he certainly _looked_ thirty pounds heavier. And all that on top of the weight he’d gained leading up to day.

“Your flowers are crooked,” Fenris said when they were finally alone. The rest of the festival was spinning around about them, but up here, on the abandoned stage, they had a semblance of privacy.

“I’m…starting a new…trend,” Hawke managed. He seemed to be having trouble stringing words together. His chair creaked as he leaned farther back. “Ah, fuck…Fenris…I think I ate my weight in…pies.”

_Impossible_ , Fenris thought, wishing he had the privacy needed to say it aloud. _You’re far too fat for that._ How would Hawke respond if he said that? Was he as excited by these changes as Fenris was? Would he be shocked to know Fenris wanted to straddle his thick lap and rub himself off against the massive swell of his belly?

Fenris cleared his throat. “Can you walk?” he asked, just shy of too sharp.

Hawke considered that. He reached out with one hand to grip the table edge, the other flailing for the side of his chair. He began to hoist himself up slowly, belly first—rising monstrously huge and bloated above him, like a weather balloon. He rose rose rose, seam of his shirt crying out in protest…then suddenly grunted and fell back with a crash and a warning crack of wood. Hawke dropped his head back, huffing in helpless breaths, utterly pinned in place by his own bulk.

Maker, but he needed to get Hawke home _now_ so he could do a thousand wicked things to his essentially immobilized form.

Unaware of the lust flaring deep inside Fenris’s gut, Hawke simply groaned and rubbed circles against his belly. It was so stuffed, the little jiggle of fat was barely there, skin stretched impossibly tight. The rise and fall had sent the waist of his pants rolling down a little, giving himself more room to spread. “Can’t you carry me?” he moaned, mostly teasing. Mostly.

Fenris frowned, thrilling inside at the idea that…no, no he probably couldn’t. Not now. And he was hardly a weak man. “Not without sending us both rolling to the ground,” he said, then suddenly had an idea. Fenris pulled back a step, taking in Hawke’s bloated and helpless form, his red-cheeked face, his flower crown. “Wait here,” he added, turning on his heel.

He thought he heard Hawke mumble, “Can’t bloody…well _go_ anywhere right now…can I?” before he was gone to hunt down a friendly neighbor and his hay cart. It took both of them to hoist the former warrior up on his feet and a third to help lift him into the cart—three strong, grinning, wise-cracking men, each taking turns to tease Hawke, asking after the upcoming birth of his litter of children, wondering if he’d be able to squeeze himself into the door of his home, taking bets on whether the bed would finally give out under him.

Hawke just waved them off good-naturedly, crown still in place (still cocked rakishly over one eye), shirt rucked up so much in the commotion that it barely covered his tits, dark fur lining the high dome of his bouncing gut as the cart made its way through town toward their home—carrying them away from a successful fair and a new kind of champion-hood Fenris could finally appreciate.

(Secretly wondering what damage the day would do to his lover’s ever-growing waistline.)


	7. Chapter 7

Isabela sent word that she’d be visiting late that winter, nearly into the first blush of spring—and of course, because it was Isabela, she arrived not one hour after that warning letter reached them.

Hawke was still at work, baking up a storm in his “final test” to move from apprentice to journeyman baker. He’d been dragon-focused on it all winter long, determined to make the leap before spring finally reached their peaceful farming community. He slaved away all day at the bakery, then came home and practiced for much of the night; Fenris remembered well this level of dedication. Hawke had once shown it toward honing his body into a weapon so he could face the Arishok, face the mad Templar, face anyone who threatened them.

Now? Now there was no threat—there was nothing but peace—and Hawke’s dedication was molding him into something different altogether.

All of which was exactly what Fenris wanted to see…except he couldn’t control the worried swoop in his gut as he re-read Isabela’s hastily-dashed letter. Hawke had been so sanguine and blissfully near-ignorant of the changes in his body. Or, if not ignorant, at least happy enough to overlook them, especially since Fenris went out of his way to make sure Hawke knew just how desirable he was. But Isabela wasn’t known for her subtle tongue; there was no way she was going to take the significant change in the former Champion of Kirkwall in stride without teasing him mercilessly…which could upset that delicate, happy balance Fenris and Hawke had managed to find.

 _Damn_.

Fenris tossed down the letter, striding out of the kitchen and toward their bedroom. There was no point standing about, worrying. He needed to go meet Hawke in town for their now-traditional walk back to the farm. He only had thirty minutes at most to come up with the gentlest way possible to warn Hawke about Isabela’s incoming visit. They likely had a week, week weeks at most before she arrived. Perhaps if they were properly braced, the pirate wouldn’t do _too_ much harm and—

“Well _someone_ is doing well for themselves.”

Fenris froze mid-step at the familiar low purr. He closed his eyes. “Isabela,” he said by way of greeting. This was _not_ how he’d wanted this day to go. His lover would be coming home either flush with victory or bottomed out with momentary defeat. Fenris had wanted to spend the evening celebrating or consoling by licking his way up the wide curve of his lover’s gut and biting deep bruises into the soft give of his tits before straddling that ever-widening waist and rubbing his cock against the full heft of Hawke’s belly even as he drove himself down on his rigid dick.

This— _this_ —was not part of his plans.

She laughed as if sensing his annoyance, and Fenris heard the soft rasp of cloth on cloth, followed by the creak of the chair. He turned, scowling, to spot Isabela making herself at home in his favorite armchair, one nearly-bare leg hooked over the arm, the other dangling in an artless sprawl—revealing far, far too much of her bronzed thighs and a hint of what waited between her spread legs.

He arched his brow and she laughed again before swinging herself up, dark hair falling around her. “Oh, don’t be like that; I was just seeing if the winds may have changed since last we met,” she said. Isabela stood, snagging a flashy tri-corn hat and plopping it on her head. Its huge red plume danced with the motion. “You and Hawke always were the gold ring for any sensible girl looking for a good time.”

“Hello, Isabela,” Fenris said, ignoring that. “You didn’t give much warning.”

She moved closer, smile widening with true warmth. “I didn’t think I’d have to. Let me get a good look at you,” she added, plucking at his home-spun shirt. It was simple and comfortable, laced at the neck but otherwise relaxed around his body. In fact, everything he wore was _relaxed_ these days—long gone were the leather and spikes. (Well. Except for on special occasions, but that was for Hawke alone.) “You look like a _farmer_!” she said on a laugh. “The bucolic life really has been treating you well.”

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest. “Well enough,” he said.

Isabela walked around him, eyeing him up and down in that teasingly lascivious way she had…then slowly tipped her head as she reached his front again. She flicked her gaze down, then back up, one brow arching.

“ _What_?” he demanded, not really annoyed.

She must have sensed that—or perhaps she was simply relying on their many years of close friendship (and brief stint as lovers, back when he was stupidly trying to exorcise Hawke from his heart and mind), because she reached down with no fear to touch him. Fenris tensed, expecting her to cup his privates and make some crude joke, but her hand landed a little higher, fingers gently squeezing his stomach.

“ _Someone_ ’s maybe settling a little too well,” Isabela said with a wide grin…and Fenris’s worldview took a sudden, sharp turn.

He looked down, brows snapping together, to stare at the way her brown hand cupped the front of his tunic—now flattened against his body by her touch. His stomach pooched out in a delicate roll, just enough to overflow her palm; certainly big enough that she could close her fingers around the soft pudge and give a pinch.

Which she _did_ , shamelessly, laughing brightly as his little belly jiggled. Fenris was all at once aware of the bite of his trousers around his hips, all at once aware of the subtle muffin top forming at his waist, all at once aware that somewhere along the way, as he’d been watching with intent focus as his lover grew fatter and fatter and fatter that _he_ was starting to…

What? He certainly wasn’t fat himself, but he was no longer so _svelte_ either. Not quite chubby, but not… _not-_ chubby either.

He batted Isabela’s hands away as she tried to push up his shirt. “Stop that,” Fenris said. “I’m not bigger than you are.”

“But I’ve _always_ been more than a handful,” she teased, wrapping an arm around his middle in one quick, fierce hug. “This is new. I take it you’re not working yourself to the bone then.” Her brows danced. “What does Hawke think of your newly zaftig form?”

“I’m not—” he began to protest, flushing hot all the way up to his ears. He was hypeaware of his own body now, feeling the way his stomach gently expanded against the waist of his trousers with every breath. _Damn_ Isabela anyway. “He is fine with it. _We_ are fine.”

She waggled her brows again. “You certainly are,” Isabela said, then danced away before he could take a half-hearted swing at her. “Oh, don’t be cross, Fenris: you look wonderful. _Happy_. And that’s what matters, right?”

He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d say the same thing about Hawke. “Perhaps,” Fenris said, mind turning over the problem. There was little chance he’d be able to convince Isabela to remain here while he hiked back to town and warned Hawke about her arrival. He’d _really_ wanted a chance to prime his lover, to inure him against just this sort of gentle teasing, but… Well, the plans of mortals and all that. He was going to have to come up with a new plan, this time to keep Isabela from opening her mouth and ruining a good thing. “Look,” he added, firming up his plan. “Isabela, you should know—”

“What a _darling_ little cottage the two of you have,” she said, brushing past him and heading down the hall. Her bare feet thwapped against the rustic floorboards. “It’s like something out of a picture book. Oh, is this your _bedroom_?”

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut at the sound of Isabela throwing open a door and…yes, jumping onto the bed.

There was a bright laugh, followed by a creak of springs. “It’s so _big_. You could fit four of Hawke and two of you on here!” she called back to him. “Please, _please_ tell me the two of you host scandalous little parties for all the adventurous locals.”

With a sigh, Fenris headed to his bedroom. Isabela was standing on the (huge) mattress, hands on her hips as she surveyed the heaping pile of pillows, the extra cozy blankets, the incredibly _sturdy_ frame. She looked up as he entered and grinned. “Will I be invited to the next one?”

“There are no sex parties,” Fenris said—and he could hardly believe he was forced to say as much. “There will be no—”

He stopped, freezing in place, as the outer door swung open.

“Fen?” Hawke called, booming voice echoing through the small cottage. “I’m back early with some _great_ news!”

Isabela’s eyes lit up. She pressed a finger to her lips before snagging something on her belt—one of her old invisibility clouds.

“Wait, Isabela, no,” Fenris began, but she was already crushing it in her hand and disappearing. He felt what could have been a soft breeze past, silent and swift, and Fenris cursed low in his throat and threw himself after her. He couldn’t see her, had no way of knowing where she had gone, but he needed to yank her back before she spotted Hawke and ruined everything needed to—

Hawke was shutting the door behind him, big (big) frame briefly haloed by the setting sun. He was dusted in a soft powder of snow, flakes caught like stars in his dark hair and beard and gathering along the folds of his coat.

He grinned when he spotted Fenris darting into the room, wide, _round_ face brightening beautifully. His sweetly fat cheeks dimpled, double chin more than obvious even with the beard now. “You, my love,” he said, struggling out of his coat. "Are looking at the town's new journeyman baker. It was wonderful. I..." He kept going as he fought with the coat. It clung to his meaty shoulders and thick arms, making him have to shake it free. His whole big body jiggled with the motion—nothing more so than his belly, which, in this moment, struck Fenris as frankly huge. It soared out from thick, fatty tits in one big ball. Fenris had seen all sorts of fat men in his life, taking all sorts of shapes. Hawke’s body, it seemed, was determined to be as round as possible: his furred gut stuck out in a proud dome even when empty (and it was almost never empty), tits resting on the wide top. Unless lifted up, it rested on thighs thick with fat and muscle, and covered much of his privates now. His sides were juicy rolls of flesh, and his arms were a perfect mix of former strength and current bottomless gluttony. More rolls curved along his back, leading into a wide, perfect ass.

He’d long since passed _fat_ over the winter. That festival where he’d over-stuffed himself past being able to stagger to his feet had been the tipping point, adding pound after pound on him in quick succession as he focused on studying for his journeymanship. Hawke outgrew his clothes almost as quickly as they could be purchased: proven now by the way his incredibly tight shirt was riding up to reveal a wide crescent of skin, deep belly button visible as he finally freed himself of his coat. Those fat cheeks were flushed with the effort, and he was still grinning as he described his recent victory…and Isabela still hadn’t revealed herself.

 _Fuck_.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, speaking over his lover. “Hawke. _Garrett_.”

Hawke stopped talking (something about a cherry-glazed pie) and looked at him, cocking his head in question.

Fenris cleared his throat. “We have a visitor,” he said—seconds before a _gaping_ Isabela popped into view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking prompts for short fills here:
> 
> https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/91059.html?thread=365521075#cmt365521075
> 
> Mostly because I have a yen for a really fat Anders.


	8. Chapter 8

“Maker’s tits, Hawke,” Isabela breathed, finally breaking the terrible silence. The three of them had frozen the moment she appeared, trapped in an awkward, endless tableau.

She shook herself out. “No. _Your_ tits, Hawke. Hawke. _Hawke_. You have _tits_.”

That was enough to break Fenris out of his horrified spell. He jerked forward, grabbing Isabela’s elbow in a tight, punishing grip— _shaking_ her with his fury. “You will shut your mouth,” he snarled, lighting up with blue-white light, markings charging for the first time in well over a year. “You will—”

He was stopped—stunned—paralyzed with a whole new kind of shock at the sudden boom of Hawke’s laughter. It poured out of his lover, filling the room with so much brightness that Fenris’s markings automatically flickered and dimmed; both he and Isabela stared at Hawke, who just stood there: gorgeous in his too-tight clothing, belly visibly stuffed with pastries, _jigging_ with his laughter. He had one hand up, shyly rubbing at the back of his neck, beautifully, undeniably _fat_ …and he didn’t seem to care that one of his oldest friends was there to see it.

He knew. Maybe he’d known all along—and he didn’t care.

Fenris slowly loosened his grip on Isabela’s arm, watching his lover blush prettily as any maid. Those dimples were flashing deep as he dropped his other hand to his gut, giving it a solid rub.

“I’ve got a lot more than tits, ‘Bela,” he teased, completely unselfconscious.

Well. Maybe not completely. Though he dropped his other hand, he was still blushing a bright pink. That stain of color made Fenris want to swoop in and cover his round cheeks with kisses.

“In fact, I’ve got a whole lot more than I used to pretty much all over. Want to give me a squeeze and find out?” He opened his arms in question, brow cocked, and Isabela flew toward him with a trilling laugh. She _launched_ herself into his arms, no lightweight herself, but Hawke was solid as a rock: he didn’t so much as grunt as he caught her and hauled her up into a whirling hug, spinning her around as easily as if she were Merrill.

His shirt, Fenris noted with interest, rode up just a little higher at the exertion.

“What are you doing here?” Hawke was saying as he let Isabela down. “Let me take a look at you.” He put his hands to her shoulders and pushed her back a step so he could look her up and down. “You look good. I like the hat.”

Isabela grinned back cheekily. “You look different,” she parroted. “Does Fenris like the gut?”

Fenris scowled at that, but Hawke just laughed again, lifting his palms in surrender. That seemed to be all the permission Isabela needed to get her hands on him, shoving up his shirt until it rested just beneath his heavy chest, baring the big, round sphere that was Hawke’s gut. It was straining wide and visibly hard to the touch, snaking stretch marks outlining the sheer girth of it like Hawke’s very own vallaslin. “Oh Maker, look at it,” Isabela said in something almost like a coo, giving his belly a gentle rub. “It looks like you swallowed the Arishok whole. Tell me the truth, Hawke,” she added, looking up, hands framing the widest part of him. “Did Fenris finally manage to knock you up? You look like you’re about to burst with a whole _litter_ of scowling little half-elves.”

Hawke snorted and gently batted her hands away. “Careful there,” he said, giving the tight drum of his belly a pat. “I’m carrying my victory in there. I just made journeyman baker today,” he explained. “I’ve been practicing for months now.”

“Practicing how?” she mused, stepping back to eye him up and down. With his shirt hiked up, there was no hiding the thick rolls spreading in an apron of fat around his waist. “By eating your way through the bakery?”

“More or less.” Hawke tilted his head toward the living room and moved to his favorite seat—well, waddled there, belly swaying pregnancy-round in front of him. It was familiar enough to Fenris, who saw his lover come home more often than not after days at the bakery overstuffed from “eating his own failure”,  but Isabela gave an appreciative whistle.

“You look like a skiff on rough seas,” she said, hopping elegantly over the back of the couch to settle in close just as Hawke carefully lowered himself down. The furniture creaked warningly under their combined mass. “Except I’d never let my vessel take on so much extra weight.”

Hawke leaned back, legs kicked out, naked belly resting on his thighs. He folded his hands philosophically over his furred gut. “I seem to recall the rear of your vessel takes on plenty of extra weight during festival season,” he said benignly. Then Hawke twisted his head around. “Fenris, love, come join us.”

It felt…strange to step forward, even stranger to allow himself to be caught and reeled gently to Hawke’s other side, to settle in his usual place curled around the thick mass of him. He’d always thought of this thing they shared as a secret just between them—a secret even _they_ didn’t talk about. When Hawke had first begun gaining weight, it had been a shock…which morphed into increasing smug pleasure at the idea that Hawke’s body could no longer be used as a weapon. Not when he let himself go so soft and fat, not when he transformed from muscle-bound warrior to _this_.

And of course, the erotic element to Hawke’s growth couldn’t be denied. Fenris _loved_ the changes in his lover’s body. He _loved_ watching him stuff himself over meals, _loved_ watching the way he waddled and swayed, _loved_ the huge heft of him as he lay back in bed, utterly packed to the gills, eyes hot as Fenris worked himself desperately on his cock.

Having a third person there, commenting on Hawke, touching Hawke, pinching his folds of fat and gently mocking him, was… Strange. Not unpleasant. Maybe a little unexpectedly erotic, too.

Isabela slapped her hand against Hawke’s belly, scoffing with a sly light in her eyes at the way it wobbled, and Fenris had to quickly revise that opinion. Make that _unsettlingly_ erotic. He never taunted Hawke or used crude jokes or called him fat—he’d always been too scared to draw Hawke’s attention to his weight to even mention it in more than passing. But here Isabela was, rising up on her knees to say in no uncertain terms: “I just can’t get over how much you’ve let yourself go. What did you do since coming here? Park your ass at the kitchen table and let Fenris funnel everything he could reach into your inflating gut?”

 _That_ made Fenris squirm in a thoroughly unexpected way, horrified arousal sparking through his body.

Hawke flushed, but he didn’t look offended. Fenris had the feeling Isabela wouldn’t be saying half of what she was if she thought he would be. ‘Bela had always been so very good at reading people when she wanted to…especially when it came to something like this.

“That’s not too far off the mark,” Hawke said. He deliberately leaned back against the couch, arching his back subtly—making that giant dome rise above him. It wobbled a little but remained impressively firm thanks to cakes and pies and sweet success. “Fenris has taken to spoiling me, and it turns out his brand of spoiling is incredibly fattening. Isn’t that right, Fenris?”

Fenris had to swallow, shifting to rest his weight on his hip and hide how turned on he was getting. What was going on? “I…” he began, then stalled out. He wasn’t sure what this game was or how to play, though he desperately wished he did.

Isabela picked up his slack easily, scoffing. “It takes more than a little spoiling to grow a gut like this, Hawke.” She gave his belly a solid poke. “What _does_ Fenris think of how fat you’ve grown? He left Kirkwall with the Champion, after all. Did he despair as he watched you swell bigger and bigger and _bigger_ and bigger? Does he like going to bed every night with a man so Maker-taken fat,” she stroked him, gently, hooking her finger into the deep gash of his belly button and giving him a shake, “that mountainsides could be named after him?”

“Ouch, ‘Bela,” Hawke teased. “I may be a right druffalo now, but I still have feelings.”

“You’ve got a lot more than feelings. You’ve got _layers_. And _folds_.” She stroked her hand along the curving dome of his gut, teasing her fingernails through dark hair. “And you love it, too. Imagine if everyone could see you now: the Champion of Kirkwall, prized hog and happy about it.”

Fenris fought to swallow back a noise, unexpectedly flushed by Isabela’s cruel words. He reached out a tentative hand, hidden by Hawke’s sheer bulk, and squeezed a roll of flesh between his fingers.

Hawke’s lashes fluttered, head tipping back as he melted into the caresses. He was practically purring at their attention—and how, _how_ had Fenris even for a moment thought that Hawke needed to be protected from the truth of his incredible gain? Obviously Hawke had known all along just hot fat he was getting…and he _loved it_. He wanted it.

 _Maybe_ , a part of Fenris whispers, _he wouldn’t mind being even fatter._

As if she could read his mind, Isabela looked at Fenris over the expanse of his lover and said in a teasing purr: “You wouldn’t mind getting even bigger, would you? You wouldn’t mind if Fenris really did stuff you full of all sorts of terrible things—filling this big, fat gut of yours until it was ready to pop.”

Hawke made a strangled noise at that, but Fenris was frozen in place, shocked by the suggestion—and the fierce wave of lust it inspired. Hawke came home so often already stuffed-full to the brim, letting Fenris take care of the natural after-effects of such intense over-eating. But what if Fenris was the one straddling his lap and pushing pastries into his eager mouth? What if Fenris was the one who was tipping Hawke’s head back and pouring fattening cream down his throat? What if Fenris was the one who was making him bigger, and bigger, until no war could ever take Hawke from him again?

The idea was electrifying—and not just for him. The restless shift of Hawke’s hips proved he was just as into the idea.

“Ah,” Hawke said; his voice was rough. “Teasing aside, I’m not sure Fenris would really be into something like that.”

“Oh wouldn’t he?” Isabela countered.

Fenris laid a hand on the crest of Hawke’s stomach, sliding down to rub softly at the pillowy fat gathered at the base. He was stuffed, but not so stuffed that there wasn’t room for more; all at once, Fenris wanted nothing more than to get his hands on some _pies_. “I would,” he said, low.

Hawke turned his head to stare at him, eyes wide and dark. Isabela hummed and gave his belly a pat, rolling up onto her feet. “You see him to the bedroom, Fenris,” she said, sauntering into the kitchen. “I’ll bring you something good to eat, then get lost for a few hours. And maybe if I’m very good, I’ll wear out my welcome long enough that you two will let me play along sometime.” She glanced over her shoulder and winked. “I always did want to ruin a perfectly handsome warrior.”

“Are you…sure you want to do this?” Hawke asked when Isabela was out of the room. He shifted awkwardly, settling his bulk so he could look at Fenris.

Fenris felt his cheeks burning, but he stood, holding out his hands. It took considering strength to haul Hawke to his feet now, and the awkward way he shuffled in place as his big body settled made something burn in Fenris’s gut. “I can’t…talk the way she did,” he said, simply. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”

Hawke flushed. “I liked it too,” he admitted. Then he laughed. “Wow, we’re really kinky, Fen.”

Fenris caught his lover’s hand and pulled him toward their bedroom. “Then let’s be kinky,” he said with a shrug. “So long as I am with you, it does not matter.”

“You do say the sweetest things,” Isabela teased, slipping in behind them. She had a tray filed with things she had pilfered from the larder—one of the benefits of Hawke’s training was the many, many treats hidden about the place. (Which, Fenris had to wonder dryly, was probably why he was starting to get a little fat himself.) “Here you two are. Can I help finish unwrapping him?” She asked, then sighed at Fenris’s flat look. “Oh, very well. I’ll see you both later—hopefully with a little more meat on your bones,” she added with a wink, then darted off again.

Hawke looked at Fenris, brows arching, then deliberately pulled off his top. “So,” he said slowly, tossing it aside. He reached for his waistband, and Fenris obligingly lifted that big gut so his lover could push his trousers and his smalls down fat thighs until he was completely naked. He stepped back, flesh wobbling enticingly as he crawled back onto the bed. “How do you want me?”

“Like that,” Fenris said. He bit his lip and shucked his own clothes, briefly self-conscious of his own little belly pooching out. It felt weird now that he was aware of it—but also so very easy to ignore once he was focusing on Hawke again. There was really no feeling fat when Hawke was around. “I want you splayed out like that.”

“What…ah…will you feed me first?” he asked. Hawke propped up against pillows, already mostly-full belly resting between his spread thighs. He gave it a tentative rub. “I’m _really_ hungry.”

 _Fuck_. He quickly moved to straddle Hawke’s wide hips, loving the strain it caused on his thighs. He reached over, snagging a slice of blueberry pie. It smeared bright blue in his hands, dribbling down his wrist, and Fenris turned his head to lick it away (shivering at Hawke’s low moan) before drawing it to his lover’s mouth.

“Eat this,” he said, but Hawke was already taking the first bite. And the second. The third. He ate the pie right from Fenris’s hand, eyes locked with his the entire time. Bright blue was smeared across his lips and a little in his beard, messy enough to make Fenris smile past the excited lump in his throat. “Good,” he said, voice rough. “That is good.”

“More, Fen,” Hawke said. He licked his lips, panting softly already. Sitting where he was—pressed snug against the warm heft of Hawke’s tubby belly—he could feel his lover’s erection insistent against his own. “Gotta feed me more. Gotta make me big and fat for you.”

Fenris blindly snagged at the next treat, color rising hot on his cheeks. Those words were incendiary enough to have him subtly rocking forward. “I do not have much work ahead of me, then,” he said, urging the tart into Hawke’s eager mouth—pushing it in just a little to see how Hawke would react. The big warrior just grunted and moaned, chewing and swallowing faster, taking what Fenris forced on him. Maker. “You have already done a fine job yourself.”

Taking Isabela’s words as inspiration, he added: “I remember when I could count your abs with my fingertips.” He dragged his fruit-sticky fingers over the dome of Hawke’s bulbous gut, riding out the arch of his hips. “Look at what you have done.”

“I’ve gotten so _fat_ , Fenris,” Hawke moaned, sprawled back and staring up at Fenris with glassy eyes. The thick second chin was more than obvious now, ringing round cheeks. Muscles still clung to his biceps, but they were tempered by pillowy fat; Fenris wondered how many pies it would take before that muscle was gone, too. Before Hawke’s arms were as thick around as Fenris’s thighs, before they squished between his fingers soft as those glorious tits, as the ever-growing rolls at his sides.

He sucked in a breath and shoved another tart into Hawke’s mouth at the thought, then another, then _another._ He barely gave his lover time to chew and swallow, taken with the idea that each fattening bite was adding to his girth, taking him one step closer to those soft arms. To _another_ chin. To tits he could lift and fondle and suck like breasts as Hawke lay spread across their bed in ever-softening supplication.

 _So fat_ , Fenris thought, kissing the heaving belly as he fed it to capacity and beyond, cramming treat after treat inside the already-inflated gut. _So big, so round, and mine forever_.

He pressed his hips forward, grinding against Hawke’s massive cock—rubbing himself desperately against Hawke’s massive gut—sticky and panting and so damn close to release as he reached for the tray of sweets and realized with a burst of horror-and-elation that there was _one_ left. Hawke had eaten all the rest; they were rounding out his body even now, making him big enough to burst.

“Eat this,” Fenris managed, shivering. He lifted the final sweet to Hawke’s smeared-filthy mouth, aware of how incredible tight his gut was—taut with too much food, already overburdened. “Eat this,” he repeated, meeting Hawke’s eyes over the curve of his own dissipated body, “and you will be so fat for me.”

Hawke just huffed in a breath, another, one hand rubbing at the bowed-out side of his belly, trying to relieve the pressure. His cock pulsed where it was pressed against Fenris’s, both of them so keyed up it was a wonder they hadn’t yet orgasmed.

He pursed his lips. “Make me,” he said, and opened his mouth in welcome.

Fenris came—shuddering against the heft of his amazing bulk, riding out the shockwaves—and shoved the last bite into his lover’s waiting mouth.


End file.
